


Falling For You

by sevendustycowboys (palimpsests_and_quill_pens)



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Olympics, Alternate Universe - Skating, Athletes, Drama, F/M, Healthy Relationships, Hurt/Comfort, Modern Era, Olympics, Romance, Slow Burn, Trust Issues, figure skating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-01 17:16:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16769455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palimpsests_and_quill_pens/pseuds/sevendustycowboys
Summary: As a figure skater, Inez has to trust her partner. But Paulo Monterro is far from a trustworthy man. After years of struggling to make their partnership work, Inez finally snaps at the Grand Prix Final. She slips, Paulo doesn't catch her, and she falls, hitting the ice hard enough to bruise bone. And Paulo lays all the blame on her shoulders.Inez quits. She just can't do it anymore. But before she walks away, she is offered one more chance at her dreams of an Olympic medal. Vin Tanner is nothing like Paulo in many ways. He's not a show off, he never raises his voice, and he doesn't make demands.But he's not a professional skater. And learning to trust a new partner is a long, long road, for both of them.





	Falling For You

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to @thenervetoservetheturn on tumblr who spent countless hours batting around inspiration for this fic with me! ♥♥♥

**__ **

**Grand Prix Final, Japan. December, 2013.**

The sharp snap of frigid air greeted Vin as he stepped into the arena building. Frosted memories, long since grown hazy and clouded over, hovered to the forefront of his consciousness—the rasp of blades carving into the smooth surface of the ice, the tight pull of his muscles when he launched into a jump.

“How long has it been?”

Vin raised his head to see Ezra staring at him, expectant. Awaiting an answer.

“For what?” Vin said, even though he already knew what Ezra was asking.

“When was the last time you were on the ice?”

Vin shrugged and glanced away. A question was never innocent with Ezra. He was sniffing out information to be honed into bullets later. And Vin wouldn’t volunteer any ammunition if he could help it.

Ezra squinted one eye shut, the pink tip of his tongue caught between his teeth as he ticked off on his fingers, one, two, three…

“By my count,” he said. “It’s been five years since you lost that bet to me and I turned you into a figure skater.”

“You cheated,” Vin replied in a dry, flat tone.

“Come now, Mr. Tanner. Nobody likes a spoil sport. I told you, if you could prove that I cheated, I would have gladly agreed to render our deal null and void.”

Vin huffed with an annoyed look. Ezra knew perfectly well that Vin couldn’t prove a damn thing.

Ezra flashed a charming smile—the same smile he used on the camera crew and reporters.

“The offer still stands for our current deal as well,” he said.

Vin grumbled under his breath but made no reply.

Ezra rubbed his hands together. “In the meantime, you’d better get moving, Mr. Tanner.” He gestured to the pile of his gear stacked by the door. “You have your work cut out for you. Oh, and don’t forget to polish my blades.”

He turned and headed into the throng of athletes, coaches, and television crews flooding the backstage corridors.

Vin sighed and hoisted the strap of Ezra’s duffel bag onto his shoulder. He glanced down at the mountain of gear—suitcases and garment bags, jackets and headphones and iPods. There was enough stuff to require two trips, maybe more.

Navigating the crowded hallways and dressing rooms, lugging Ezra’s gear, was not a pleasant thought.

But Ezra was currently deep in conversation with a reporter, his voice dripping with Southern charm as he discussed the possibility of securing a spot on the Olympic team for February’s Games.

Besides, Vin got himself into this. He knew better than to play cards with Ezra. But he’d slipped up, just once. Got caught in one of Ezra’s poker games. In ten minutes flat, Vin had been slaughtered. Ezra robbed him blind and then some.

That’s how Vin managed to wind up here. Paying off his debts by becoming Ezra’s pack mule for six months of the skating season.

Vin didn’t like it. But he could live with it.

“Ain’t playin’ cards with you again after this, Ezra,” he muttered, forging a path to the dressing rooms, Ezra’s duffel bag bumping against his leg as he went.

***

It was easy for Vin to disappear in the chaos backstage. With his well-worn Wrangler jeans, cowboy boots and hat, he was all Texas and people dismissed him with a single glance. He didn’t look the part of an athlete. The lack of sportswear logos was a dead giveaway.

Ezra was the one who wore form-fitting Nike warmup jackets and shocking-white Adidas sneakers.

But this had never been Vin’s world. The competition, the publicity, the showmanship. He preferred behind the scenes where the spotlight couldn’t find him.

He dragged a chair to a deserted portion of the hallway, within shouting range if Ezra needed him. Vin settled in, his legs stretched out in front of him, his hat tipped low over his eyes. He crossed his arms, closed his eyes, and listened to the hum of activity in the distance.

After the first group of skaters were finished on the ice, Ezra stepped into the hallway. His skate laces were loose and untied—he wasn’t due in the rink until the third and final batch of skaters, granting him plenty of time to warm up and prepare.

But he had already donned his costume—a bow tie hung around his neck, pinned in place to his white shirt. Cherry red sleeve garters on his arms matched the suspenders hooked over his shoulders. His trousers were striped grey and black, dusted with glitter to make Ezra sparkle under the lights. And when show time came around, Ezra had black and white spats to hook over his skates and complete the old-fashioned 1920’s look.

Ezra adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves. Vin kept silent, waiting for Ezra to do the talking first. Ezra thrived off of parties and photoshoots. Solitude was a rarity that he didn’t seek often, unless he was truly troubled about something.

Ezra tipped his head back with a heavy exhale. “My dear mother is driving me crazy.”

Vin pushed his hat further back on his head. “Thought you would have been used to that by now.”

“I doubt I’ll ever be.” Ezra rubbed at his forehead. “What on earth possessed me to employ my mother as my coach?”

“Blackmail.”

Ezra barked a short laugh. “An apt description, Mr. Tanner. How do you suppose she would take the news of a change in coaches?”

Vin raised his eyebrows. Ezra waved him off before he could reply.

“You’re right, I know. Terrible idea. It wouldn’t go over well.”

“She’s got her finger on the pulse of all this business though.”

Ezra tilted his head in a reluctant nod. “True. It’s my sanity that’s suffering under her direction. Not my skating.”

Maude Standish was a force to be reckoned with. Ezra might wield his Southern charm with the dexterity of a magician, but Maude had invented every magic trick Ezra used. In her younger years, she had been a singles’ skater, with elaborate costumes and performances that had the crowd on their feet as soon as she claimed center ice.

And yet, despite a lucrative career, she’d never managed to get her hands on an Olympic medal. When Ezra was born, brimming with promise, she started training him into a miniature figure skater as soon as he could walk.

And here he was, the Olympics within reach if he could just skate a clean performance.

“Ezra?”

Li Pong emerged at the end of the hallway, fiddling with the costume clasps at the back of her neck. She wore a gleaming black and silver flapper dress with a knee-length fringe skirt and faux diamonds draped at her throat.

She was so tiny, wide-eyed, and soft spoken that people tiptoed around her. But once she took the ice and the music began, she transformed from a little mouse to a blazing phoenix that set the audience on fire.

“Can you help me with this?” Li said, gesturing to the clasps.

“Of course, darling.”

As Ezra stepped up behind her, hooking the clasps closed, Li glanced over her shoulder and whispered something too soft for Vin to hear. Ezra nodded as he finished with the last clasp and trailed his hands over her shoulders, down her arms. Li turned to face him and a small smile played over her lips, the flicker of a secret intended for Ezra’s eyes alone.

Vin backed away, leaving Ezra and Li to their private moment. A majority of their lives was spent in the public eye, a song and dance routine on and off the ice. Every triumph, every failure, was on display for the world to partake of.

But Li’s smile, Ezra’s response in the brush of his fingertips over her shoulders, belonged to them alone.

No longer needed, Vin exited backstage and made his way into the audience. At the top of the arena’s seating, in the last available row, was Mary. She was huddled in a snow-white peacoat with large black buttons and a black scarf looped around her neck. She raised a black-gloved hand and waved to get his attention.

Vin took the stairs two at a time and dropped into the seat next to her.

“I was beginning to think you got lost back there,” Mary said.

Vin shook his head. “Ezra’s packin’ twice as much stuff these days. He’s enjoying himself too much.”

Mary bit the inside of her cheek to hide a smile. She cast him a sympathetic look.

“That’s why Chris doesn’t play with him anymore,” she said.

Vin snorted. “Smart man.”

Over the loud speaker, the second group of skaters was introduced as they glided onto the ice. Mary straightened in her seat, her gaze focused on the rink.

Skating held a bittersweet holiness for her. She studied every competition, followed the training programs and coaching methods of every skater as diligently as if it was a religion. But she didn’t set foot on the ice. Those days were behind her.

Ever since her husband and former partner had been killed in a car accident, Mary couldn’t bring herself to wear her skates again.

For Vin, he liked the physical aspect of skating, but it didn’t hold the same sacredness as it did for Mary. After losing his bet to Ezra the first time around, Vin was stuck taking skating lessons every week, much to Ezra’s amusement.

Vin had learned the basics. How to glide. How to fall without breaking bones. How to spin. And then how to jump.

But he’d never made it this far—to the dazzling lights, his name displayed on the monitor overhead, paring down his performance to painstaking points in order to climb his way up the leaderboard for a precious medal.

And he was grateful for that. The thought of skating in front of hundreds of strangers made his stomach roil.

After the second group of skaters had finished their warmup, the first couple took the ice.

“Representing Mexico, Inez Recillos and Paulo Monterro.”

Mary sucked in a breath through her teeth and released it as if she was the one preparing for the ensuing performance.

“They’re such a complicated pair,” she said, never taking her gaze from the ice.

Vin said nothing. He’d seen them skate once or twice but all he noticed was how tentative and tight they were around each other. Mary would be more familiar with the intricacies of their program.

Recillos and Monterro faced off on the ice, shoulders squared, chins tilted up, defiant and rigid. Stiff. Monterro was clad in blazing white—a flared jacket, gold whorls down the side of each leg. Recillos was dressed in red, a scarlet slash of heat against the paleness of the ice.

Mary leaned toward Vin slightly, lowering her voice.

“They could be Olympic gold medal material,” she said. “They’re both very driven and powerful skaters. But there’s too much bad blood between them.”

Vin could see that, plain as day. The music rolled to life, a dramatic flamenco piece. Sharp staccato movements to match the seething looks exchanged between Recillos and Monterro.

Vin knew a good performance when he saw one. But this wasn’t an act. The dark glares exchanged between Recillos and Monterro were real. The music had simply been added in an attempt to cover it up, soften it around the edges and call it choreography, artistry, flare.

The first side by side jumping pass came up. Recillos’ entry position was textbook perfection—shoulders straight, arms extended to either side, as she reached back with her toe pick.

But Monterro lagged, taking too long to prepare for the jump instead of lining up for the entry with his partner.

Recillos struggled to slow down, adjust her pace to match his. Her timing faltered, the ready rhythm she had created wobbled.

But when Monterro’s toe pick bit into the ice, launching him into the air, Recillos was right alongside him.

And it cost her. She popped the jump, one leg swinging wide. What should have been a triple toe loop became a single toe loop, dropping precious points down to virtually nothing.

Recillos landed on the flat of her blade, pitched too far forward. Her arms flailed out in front of her to catch her balance, coming within an inch of touching the ice.

Monterro landed his jump, as smooth as silk. He cast Recillos a scathing look and held out his hand, palm up in a short, sharp gesture. A demand, an order to be obeyed.

Recillos didn’t look at him as she placed her hand in his with a flicker of hesitant reluctance. But she held her head high and picked up speed, determined to finish the program despite the mistake.

Recillos and Monterro settled into a circular footwork routine, the arc of their edges twining in and out of each other as they skated.

The music rose in a deafening crescendo of pounding drum beats and clicking castanets. Recillos faced Monterro in a spread eagle, her hands on his chest, her chin tilted up toward him.

It should have been an intimate moment, portraying passionate lovers lost to the world around them.

But Monterro turned his head to the side in disdain. And when Recillos and Monterro approached the bow of the rink’s edge, crossovers whisk-whisk-whisking against the ice, Monterro didn’t take Recillos’ hand like a dancer leading his partner through the steps.

He gripped her wrist instead, possessive, tight.

Vin inhaled a deep breath and looked away. He couldn’t watch anymore. It was one thing to not get along with a partner. Personalities clashed. Perspectives differed.

But this…this was something else. Something that Vin couldn’t stomach to witness it.

Seconds ticked by with the flamenco music strumming away, tinny against the arena’s metal ceiling. Vin studied the rafters, the water stains, the freckles of rust, even the worn and frayed hemline of his coat. Anything but the drama on the ice.

Then Mary’s fingers strayed to his forearm. Her fingernails bit into his skin and she inched forward even more. Must be a good part of the program coming up, a tense part.

Despite himself, Vin’s gaze glanced down to the rink again.

Monterro hooked a hand around Recillos’ waist as she kicked up and into a lift over his head. She reached out to place her hand on his shoulder for support…

Monterro bobbled. Just a minor correction of balance.

But Recillos’ hand slipped. She began to plummet head first toward the ice.

All Monterro had to do was grab her arm. The simplest tug would shift Recillos’ momentum, alter her descent and get her feet on the ice instead of her head.

Monterro let go completely and stepped away.


End file.
